


Your Touch Magnetizing

by getpitchslapped



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: F/F, Humor, Implied Smut, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-01 00:37:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3999247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getpitchslapped/pseuds/getpitchslapped
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keeping your hidden, magical powers a secret from your girlfriend is proving to be harder than it seems. Aubrey, for one, has had enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Touch Magnetizing

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt:
> 
> “Beca & Chloe are together but have secret magical powers that they are trying to hide from everyone including each other and their relationship is stuck because of that. Clueless to anything unnatural going on, Aubrey gets fed up with the angst and bullies them into confronting one another by being extremely Aubrey (i.e., shrill). Hilarity ensues.”
> 
> Disclaimer: I’ve never written anything even remotely supernatural-ish (and I don’t watch supernatural-themed TV shows/movies or read supernatural-themed books/fics), so please judge gently. I had a ton of fun with this, regardless. It kind of jumps around timeline-wise, but I don’t think it’s too hard to follow.
> 
> Title is from “ET” by Katy Perry (ft. Kanye West).

It’s starting to get out of hand, really.

Beca’s never had this problem before. One might think that, upon discovering one’s telekinetic powers, said person would at least tell her parents. Certainly if she’s five years old. But no. Beca, being the “demon child” (Sheila’s words, not hers) that she was, saw this as an opportunity to use to her advantage—at the very least, to snag herself an extra cookie during snack time in kindergarten.

That’s how she discovers it, actually, so similar to  _Matilda_  that Beca views the film as a documentary until she’s thirteen.

She really wanted that damn cookie, okay?

Beca’s managed to keep a tight rein on her “powers” (she’s lived with it for thirteen years and the word still makes her roll her eyes reflexively), only using them when someone has  _really_  pissed her off or she’s too lazy to get up and retrieve the remote control to the television. And, okay, there was that  _one time_  that she very slowly, very carefully slid a pair of $500 headphones around the security panels and out the door of Best Buy. But only once. Beca might be a chronic underachiever, but she’s not a criminal. Not often, anyway.

It’s the furthest thing from her mind at the moment, because she’s currently pressed along one very hot Chloe Beale, fused at the lips as if trying to conserve oxygen. Yeah, her powers are currently number seventy-two on the list of “Things That Are Currently Irrelevant” because she’s got Chloe beneath her, making these whiny, breathy little moans that make Beca question why males even exist. Beca’s contemplating whether Chloe would be mad if she ripped off her bra instead of bothering to unclasp it when she sees something moving out of the corner of her eye.

It’s her hair brush, of all things, just hovering above where she’d left it on her desk, slowly inching its way across the room. It distracts her long enough for Chloe to take control of the kiss and stick her tongue into Beca’s mouth. Surprised, Beca bites down a bit—not hard, but hard enough for Chloe to gasp and break the kiss.

“Ow!” she yelps, crossing her eyes in an adorable attempt to inspect the damage. Then she narrows those eyes at Beca.

“Sorry,” Beca says, grimacing, but keeping one eye on the hair brush. “You surprised me.”

Chloe raises an eyebrow at that. “You weren’t so surprised last night when I put my tongue in your—”

“Yeah, okay,” Beca says quickly, flushing. “Sorry, I got distracted.”  
“Distracted?” Chloe repeats, looking mildly affronted. “I’m half naked here and you’re _distracted_?” She has a joking lilt to her voice that tells Beca that she isn’t actually mad, but still, Beca doesn’t think she’d take hearing that she was distracted by her hair brush very well. (She glares at the offending object for good measure.)

“Sorry,” Beca says again, her lips curling into a smirk. “Maybe I’d be more… uh, focused if you took this off.” She runs her fingertips teasingly along the lacy underside of Chloe’s pale blue bra. Chloe snorts, but obliges, whining and arching her back when warm palms cup her gently.

Beca leans in to press hot, open-mouthed kisses to the smooth column of Chloe’s neck, pausing to nibble teasingly just over her pulse point. She feels Chloe’s fingers dance down her abdomen and pop the button of her jeans, fingernails scratching teasingly at the sensitive skin of her belly.

Something moving on the other side of the room catches her eye. Beca peeks one eye up, seeing her laptop hovering about three feet off of the ground.

 _Shit_.

“No!” Beca yelps, managing to reroute her laptop to land with a soft  _thud_  safely on her desk.

Chloe stills her fingers, which were just just barely making their way into Beca’s underwear. “No?”

“No!” Beca says quickly, then fights the urge to slap herself in the forehead as Chloe looks even more confused. “I mean, not no as in stop, no as in…” She trails off, unsure of how to explain her outburst without revealing her telekinesis.

(It’s not that she doesn’t trust Chloe, exactly—she does. She totally does. She’s just completely unsure of how to explain that she can move things with her mind without Chloe either laughing at her or committing her to an institution.)

Beca falls silent, her mouth opening and closing as she tries to think of an excuse that won’t make her seem like a total idiot.

She draws a blank.

She must have been quiet for too long, because Chloe retracts her hand and starts shrugging her clothes back on. And Beca, being the ineloquent dumbass she is, simply watches her gather her belongings.

“Hit me up when you’re ready to give this”—Chloe gestures to her body—“the attention it deserves.” She sashays out the door, purposely swaying her hips exaggeratedly.

Beca runs a hand through her hair frustratedly, angrily flipping her hair brush and laptop the finger.

* * *

Later, Beca types “telekinesis and sex” into a search engine because honestly, she’s out of ideas.

“ _In some people, sex can interfere with one’s control over his or her telekinesis. This is because t_ _he nucleus accumbens, part of the limbic system, which plays a role in sexual arousal, is tightly connected to the prefrontal cortex, which is_ _implicated in planning complex cognitive behavior. The former can override the latter, which leads to lack of control over one’s powers._

 _Well, shit_ , Beca thinks.

Mother Nature is cockblocking her.

* * *

_Psychometry —the ability to learn things about the past or future of an object by touching it._

The words seem to almost shimmer in the intense light radiating from 11-year-old Chloe’s computer in contrast with her darkened bedroom. She scans the article as she absentmindedly pets her cat, something akin to a vague highlight reel of the first mouse he’d ever caught plays in the back of her mind, followed by the image of the chipmunk he’s going to catch next week.

She silently apologizes to it and its family.

Her special knowledge— _psychometry_ , she repeats to herself, glad to put a name to it—isn’t a new occurrence. It’s just taken Chloe awhile to realize that not everyone can lay their hand on a rock and know how long it’s been there and where it came from (she’d gotten some pretty weird looks for that one). Also, she’s starting to get to the age where her “fun facts” are less likely to be written off as a “wild imagination” and more of a “psychiatric disorder” (the words of her fourth grade teacher when Chloe had told him that the pencil she was using came from a tree in Cedar Key that was planted in 1964). Her older brother showed her  _One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest_  one night when her parents were out, and she has absolutely no desire to see the inside of a psychiatric facility for herself.

For the most part, it hasn’t really been an issue, other than that time in ninth grade that she grabbed her friend’s hand to get her attention and then flung it away in disgust, a shriek of “Ew!” escaping her before Chloe could stop herself.

She had suddenly seen where  _that_  hand had been, and she certainly didn’t want to be touching it.

Chloe’s pretty sure that girl hates her now.

* * *

Okay, so Beca’s… outbursts while they were making out on Tuesday were weird, but Chloe’s high school track coach always told her to “try, try again.” And Chloe’s no quitter. She jumps right back into the game.

Or, more specifically, her hands jump right back into Beca’s shirt.

Beca’s still acting a little strange—kinda jumpy—but maybe she had one too many shots of espresso that morning. It’s whatever.

Chloe’s edging Beca’s shirt up her abdomen, and maybe Beca should have espresso shots every day because— _damn—_ she’s wearing this lacy, almost see-through black lace bra that Chloe’s never seen her wear before. She traces the underside of the bra with her fingertips, moving to palm Beca more fully, when she whispers, “Jeff.” Chloe is bombarded with images of a gangly, blond teenage boy awkwardly fumbling at the very bra Beca is currently wearing.

Beca stills. “What?”

 _Shit_. “Um, nothing.”

“Did you say Jeff?” Beca looks down at her with a partly confused, partly annoyed, partly aroused expression on her face.

“Uh, no?” Chloe tries, attempting to distract Beca by tugging on her bra clasp. She only succeeds in getting her hands batted away.

“Hang on,” Beca says. “Jeff was the guy I lost my virginity to in tenth grade. How do you know about him?”

 _Shitshitshit_. “Um…” Chloe wracks her mind for an believable explanation. “Facebook?”

“Did he friend you?” Now Beca sounds a bit angry—and Chloe thinks she might detect some jealousy in her tone.

She clings to the excuse anyway. “Yes! Uh, yes—yes he did.”

“That bastard,” Beca mutters under her breath, yanking her shirt back down and sliding off of Chloe. She whines a bit at the loss of contact.

“What are you doing?” Chloe asks, watching Beca open her laptop.

“Sending him a message,” Beca says absently, already clicking away. “Oh, wait, I have to unblock him first…”

Chloe sits up quickly. “Um, I don’t really think that’s necessary.”

“If he’s harassing you on Facebook, I think it’s pretty necessary,” Beca says, tapping at the keyboard. “Do you think I should start the message with ‘hey needle dick’ or 'hello ass pirate’?” Beca asks without looking up from the screen, and Chloe fleetingly thinks that this is not something she should find endearing.

“I got it! 'Dear Rumpleforskin’…”

Chloe groans and flops back on the couch cushions.

* * *

_Dear Rumpleforeskin,_

_What the fuck, dude? Is it not enough that you’ve forever scarred me with the memory of super awkward, bad sex in the back of your truck? (I had bruises for a week, I’ll have you know.) Now you’re creeping on my girlfriend, too? What, does your so-called masculinity ache with the thought of your first time giving up on men altogether? GET OVER IT. If you value what remains of said so-called masculinity (and I’m being generous, because there wasn’t much to start with), LEAVE HER ALONE._

_Beca_

_P.S. - Your breath smells like ranch dip. Like, all the time._

* * *

It is perhaps a testament to the Southern vacation on which their relationship seems to have embarked that Beca—sick to death of Jesse and his insatiable  _need_  to act like the charming, manly hero of his fictitious biopic  _all the time_ —fires off a text message to Chloe that reads  _Do you want to, like, watch a movie or something?_

And so she finds herself sitting next to Chloe on her girlfriend’s living room couch, a good six inches of space between them, as Adam Sandler attempts to woo some blond who can barely remember her own name for the third or fourth or forty-seventh time. Beca’s been staring at the wall next to the television for some time (because at least the wall isn’t white, fat, and unfunny), mentally weighing the pros and cons of using her telekinesis to pull the plug to the TV out of its socket. Both she and Chloe sit tamely with their hands in their laps, like anxious teenagers whose weird religious parents had told them that second base makes Jesus cry.

When the movie ends, Beca springs up from her seat before awkwardly regarding Chloe, wringing her hands. “Um, good night.”

“Good night,” Chloe echoes, hesitating before pulling Beca into a weird side-hug, kissing her chastely on the corner of her mouth.

Beca walks back to Barden alone, hands in her pockets, dreaming about how much cash she could pilfer from her mom’s wallet if her memory reset every night.

* * *

It’s when Aubrey comes home to “Titanium” blasting from under the door of Chloe’s room that she’s had enough. She waits at the kitchen table for Chloe to… um,  _finish_ , and when she appears, Aubrey pounces.

“Chloe, whatever argument you’re having with Beca needs to end now,” she says authoritatively.

Chloe, looking mildly disheveled and sweating a bit, stares at her for a moment before saying, “What?”

“I don’t care whose fault it is, just apologize. Beca might be thick, but she’s not stupid.” Aubrey pauses. “Well, she’s not  _that_  stupid.”

“What makes you think Beca and I are fighting?” Chloe asks, looking around shiftily.

Aubrey huffs. “Um, because when you’re not bugging me to hang out with you every night, you’re alone in your room, doing… playing that  _song_. You’re drinking all of the good wine. _And_ you’re watching a  _lot_  of  _America’s Next Top Model_ , which is a cry for help in and of itself,” she says, ticking off each offense on her fingers.

“Beca and I aren’t fighting, exactly,” Chloe says, rubbing the back of her neck. “We’ve kind of… hit a plateau.”

“Well, then, get off of it,” Aubrey demands, swinging her backpack over her shoulder in preparation for her three o'clock class. “And in the meantime, find a new song.”

* * *

The next day, when Aubrey comes home to hear the strains of “No Diggity” drifting down the hallway, she decides to take matters into her own hands.

Figuratively.

* * *

Beca is engaging in a new study technique in which she absorbs information through osmosis by napping on her philosophy textbook when there is a knock at the door. Groaning, she rolls off of her bed and drags herself to the door, opening it to reveal one irritated Aubrey Posen.

“Um. Hi,” Beca says as Aubrey pushes past her and drops into her desk chair. “Please, come in.”

“Whatever weird not-argument you and Chloe are having, please knock it off,” Aubrey tells her.

Beca folds her arms across her chest. “And why is this any of your business?”

“Have you ever tried to study with 'Titanium’ blasting in the next room?” Aubrey raises an eyebrow when Beca blushes. “I’m starting to feel like I’m living in a brothel,” she mutters.

“It’s complicated,” Beca says, leaning against the wall next to the door.  _More so than you can imagine_ , she thinks.

“No excuses,” Aubrey barks, clapping her hands together. Beca almost feels like she should salute her. Instead, she rolls her eyes.

“As much as I enjoy it when people show up unexpectedly and tell me what to do, I should be studying,” Beca drawls, considering giving the rolling desk chair a mental nudge right out the door.

Now it’s Aubrey’s turn to roll her eyes. “That’s all I wanted to say.” She starts to leaves, but pauses in the doorway, her expression softening. “Look, I care about Chloe. And Chloe really cares about you. But mostly I just want her to leave the damn apartment.”

With that, Aubrey exits and strides purposefully away down the hall.

* * *

That night, Beca dreams that she is trying to study when Chloe comes into the room, “Titanium” spontaneously pouring from invisible speakers. She sits down and, well…

You know.

Beca wakes up with a start, breathing hard and feeling a little, um,  _sticky_ , when she notices that her bed is hovering about two feet into the air. Quickly, she lowers herself back down to the floor with a soft  _thump_ , and furtively glances over at Kimmy Jin. She doesn’t stir (Beca can only think to describe her sleeping form as a passive-aggressive rock), and Beca heaves a sigh of both relief and frustration.

Aubrey is right: This has got to stop.

* * *

The next morning, Beca asks Chloe to come over.

_**Beca:**  Hey, will you come over? I need to tell you something important._

A minute later, her phone beeps.

_**Chloe:**  Sure._

* * *

Aubrey comes home after her eight a.m. class to find Chloe parked in front of the television (again) watching  _America’s Next Top Model_  (again), drinking not-her-first-glass of red wine ( _again_ ). “Chloe!” Aubrey admonishes, standing in front of her with her hands on her hips.

“Aubrey, move! I can’t see the TV and I have to know who gets eliminated.” Chloe waves her hand dismissively.

“Okay, first of all, this season is, like, six years old,” Aubrey tells her, rolling her eyes. “Second, I thought we agreed you weren’t going to do this anymore.”

“This is the  _only_  thing I’m going to do anymore. I’m practicing to spend the rest of my life alone,” Chloe says dramatically, complete with the back of her hand pressed to her forehead.

Aubrey frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Beca texted me saying she wants to  _talk_ ,” Chloe says, raising her fingers in air quotes to punctuate her last word. “Everybody knows that’s code for 'I’m going to break up with you.’ Look, I’ve already started researching animal shelters in our area. I think we should get a cat. Or three.”

Another eye roll. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit melodramatic?  
“It’s called being  _proactive_ , Aubrey.”

“Alright, enough.” Aubrey grabs the remote and clicks the television off, ignoring Chloe’s protests. “Get off of your ass, go talk to Beca, and if she breaks up with you—which she _won’t_ , because, hello, have you  _seen_  the way that girl looks at you?—then I will get drunk with you and we will watch CariDee win  _again_ ,” Aubrey says, snatching the wine bottle off of the coffee table as well. “And take a shower.”

“Hey! Tag your spoilers!” Chloe yells at her as Aubrey leaves the room.

* * *

A couple of hours later, someone knocks softly on Beca’s door, so light it sounds as if the knocker is hoping it won’t be heard.

Taking a deep breath, Beca opens the door to reveal Chloe. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Chloe says, fidgeting with the zipper of her light jacket.

“Thanks for coming,” Beca says as Chloe steps inside and settles lightly on her bed. Her eyes are red-rimmed, like she’s been trying not to cry, and she sniffles a little. “What’s wrong?”

Chloe closes her eyes, as if bracing herself for an impact. “If you’re going to break up with me, just do it.”

Beca’s eyes widen almost comically—something she thought only happened in the stupid movies Jesse always talks about—and rushes to sit down at her girlfriend’s side. “I’m not going to break up with you,” she says confusedly. “Where did you get that idea?”

“You said you wanted to talk,” Chloe says, opening her eyes to stare at the bedspread. “That’s always a precursor to a breakup.”

“No, no, no,” Beca says quickly, taking Chloe’s hands. “I really meant I just needed to tell you something. About me.”

“You’re not breaking up with me?” Chloe finally meets Beca’s eyes.

“I’m not breaking up with you,” Beca confirms.

Chloe cracks a shy smile. “Okay. What is it you need to tell me?”

“Um…” Beca says, feeling apprehensive. “This is going to sound weird, but I’m just going to say it.” She pauses and draws a deep breath. “So I kind of have these… powers.”

Now Chloe’s eyes widen—so much so that it’s somewhat concerning—but she stays quiet.

“I can sort of move things with my mind,” Beca says, wincing in preparation for Chloe’s surefire reaction of promptly checking her into a psych ward.

Instead, Chloe just stares at her. “Like telekinesis?”

“Uh, yeah. I wasn’t sure how to tell you because I didn’t know—” Beca cuts herself off, when she notices that Chloe’s pupils are visibly enlarged. “Are you okay?”

“Thats…” Chloe trails off. “That’s really hot.”  
Now  _that_  is a reaction Beca was not expecting. “What?”

“Do you have any idea how much… um,  _fun_  we could have with this?” Chloe raises an eyebrow suggestively.

“I… uh…” Beca is truly at a loss for words. She decides to settle on, “No?”

“Then let me show you,” Chloe says, looking almost predatory as she leans over Beca and presses their lips together hungrily.

“Technically,” Beca says between kisses, “you’re going to have to instruct me, as these are  _my_  powers.”  
“Oh!” Chloe says, halfway through pulling off her shirt. “That reminds me! I have powers, too.” She whips the shirt to the floor and resumes kissing Beca’s neck.

“Wait a second,” Beca says, pulling back. Chloe frowns. “What do you mean, you have powers, too?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean?” Chloe asks, furrowing her eyebrows. “I have powers, like you. Well, not  _really_  like you, because mine are different, and they’re not as much fun.” She winks.

Beca just shakes her head, laughing.  _What are the odds? s_ he thinks. “Okay, what are your powers?”

“It’s called psychometry,” Chloe tells her, slowly inching her hands under Beca’s shirts. “I can, like, touch things and know all of the things that have happened to it in the past.”  
Something clicks in Beca’s mind. “Like my bra?” she asks suspiciously.

Chloe blushes, looking sheepish. “Uh, yeah. Remind me to apologize to Jeff.”

Beca snorts. “I’m afraid I can’t arrange that. He blocked me.”

“Oh, well,” Chloe says, her hands reaching their destination. “Nothing we can do about it now.”

Beca sits up to yank her shirt off and begins unbuttoning Chloe’s jeans. “I guess not.”

**Author's Note:**

> The stuff about the brain mentioned in this fic is 50% bullshit, 50% copied from Wikipedia. If you don’t like it, you can modify the article (what a world we live in).


End file.
